


Happy Fucking Halloween

by Eros_Scribens



Series: Ruining Holidays [3]
Category: Halloween Movies - All Media Types, Original Work
Genre: Character Turned Into a Ghost, Fisting with no holes, Food Sex, Ghost Sex, Ghost Wailing, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, M/M, Other, Phasing through People/Objects, Pumpkins, Pumpkins as fucking machines, Succubi & Incubi, That is definitely a kink I've seen though I don't know if that's the name for it, Undead, kind of, on a pumpkin, pretty sure a ghost who died during sex has a strong chance of becoming one, pumpkin fucking, whatever I had fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 04:11:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12645837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eros_Scribens/pseuds/Eros_Scribens
Summary: Ghosts are the restless souls of people who died without a fulfilling a purpose. Sometimes that purpose is an orgasm. Also, they can phase through things. It's Halloween. (Or it was, and I needed to write something before it got to be Thanksgiving.)Part of the Ruining Holidays series.





	Happy Fucking Halloween

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry it's so short. It was pretty fun to write, though! (I'm not sure if it really is m/m, but the ghost is heavily implied to be gay or bisexual. Actually, feel free to consider all my characters bisexual by default.)

The ghost was confused.

The last thing he remembered had been a sordid encounter, his own costume pulled down just enough to free the important parts, his partner’s just the same—and then he had slipped and fallen at the height of it, and all had gone black.

And then, immediately, he was in a field. He did not know how he had gotten there, or how he had done it so fast. Maybe time had passed, after all? But he would have known. Even after sleeping, you know time has passed. So then he had hit his head, and must have stumbled outside, in some kind of fugue state.

Except that the town was nowhere in sight, or it had changed to such a degree that it had become unrecognizable. The glow of distant towns lit up the ink-brown night sky, but here there was only rain and a sprawling field of vines and gourds. Pumpkins, he realized, bending down to touch one. His hand passed through it, breaching solid rind and firm vegetable flesh without marring it. He pulled back, thinking that it must have been rotten for his hand to enter it so easily, but the pumpkin’s surface was clearly unscathed, and he realized the truth of his new being.

He was dead. He had hit his head falling down during drunken Halloween-party hookup sex, and now he was dead. A certain part of him wondered if he had been handed a spiked drink and was hallucinating this entirely, but that was a problem for the morning. For now, he would proceed as his senses advised him, and they were advising him that he was dead. There was, after all, a deep gash at the base of his skull, on the right side (as he felt around with his fingers), but it was not bleeding and did not hurt, and the rain was not making his clothes wet—it passed through his body, and the passing drops made him shiver in a way that was not wholly unpleasant.

For there was another thing that was just as it had been at his moment of death. His ghostly penis was, insofar as it could be while being incorporeal, rock solid.

The ghost was not at first particularly in the mood. For one thing, he had just found out that he was dead. That tended to put a damper on things. He was also curious about his new ghostly abilities. More slowly, this time, he phased his hand through the pumpkin again.

The hard, prickly fibers of the rind passed over and through his skin, slowly blending into the softer, wetter cleaving of the pumpkin flesh. And then, finally, the slippery, chunky roundness of the seeds at its core. It was more real than his real; his flesh gave, not the pumpkin’s. He experienced the pumpkin, in its life and solidity, and a low moan escaped from his ethereal lips, unbidden.

The pleasure from merely putting his hand in the pumpkin was insistent, and then on top of that, another thought struck him. Wasn’t it said that ghosts were those who died without fulfilling some purpose? And what purpose could be more insistent to a dying soul than an imminent climax? Perhaps an orgasm was what he needed to pass on. He did not see much point in haunting anywhere, or especially wherever this was, which was boring except for the fuckable pumpkins, and the fuckable pumpkins were fuckable indeed. It was a decision quickly made.

His crotch was still exposed, as it had been during his demise. It was a simple matter to line up his penis with the pumpkin, though a bit more daunting. The reflexes of life still clung to dead synapses, and the ghost found it impossible not to fear breaking his dick.

He entered the pumpkin slowly, the head of his translucent cock breaching the shell only millimeters at a time. But soon it was in to the maximum of its girth, and the ghost held back no longer, and slammed himself in to the hilt.

Beyond the hilt, as he soon discovered. He was accustomed to his hips and stomach limiting the extent of any penetration, but they were just as ethereal as every other part of his anatomy, and, under the force of his onslaught, his entire pelvis followed his penis into the pumpkin.

The sensation was indescribable. It was as if he were fucking, being fucked, and physically converted into a 3D matrix of pleasure. Rich pumpkin flesh caressed his cock and buttocks, while seeds ground at the inner core of his prostate. He rocked back and forth inside the pumpkin, kneeling, while his hands desperately roamed over his throat and nipples. The vegetable fibers within him felt so good as they ran through every part of his incorporeal core, and in just a few minutes he was once more on the brink of orgasm.

The ghost drove his hips faster through the pumpkin’s meaty solidness and then stopped transfixed, wailing “Ooo-ooo-ooo!” as he sprayed ectoplasmic semen into the vegetable’s own seeds. The world wavered before his eyes, and all sensation fled. Finally, he thought, he would know peace. He felt a faint whisper of curiosity about the possibility of lasting effects on the pumpkin, as he faded.

Then he woke again, once more in the pumpkin field (though outside the pumpkin), with his lust and erection unabated.

“I guess that didn’t work,” the ghost said. He considered the pumpkins again, for the heat in his loins was maddeningly insistent, but he did not want to be known solely as a committer of indecent acts upon pumpkins. He also suspected that the owner of this field would not be particularly well disposed towards such a haunting. A perpetually rutting ghost was probably bad for property values.

Nonetheless, the ghost had a spectral erection to deal with, and he searched for some way to take care of it. Oh, look! There was a scarecrow. Perfect. He could probably fit his whole body in that. The ghost glided in that direction, stroking himself and wailing softly in pleasure: “Ooo-ooo-ooo! Ooo-ooo-ooo!”

**Author's Note:**

> Ruining Holidays is a sex humor series, where I deconstruct holiday motifs and mascots and turn them into strangely arousing nightmare fuel. That said, phasing through things is definitely a kink I've seen. It's not my kink, but I think I've done it justice. (If you found this fic strangely appealing for reasons other than attraction to pumpkins or other vegetables, check out the Lyrium Fisting tag. There's a Dragon Age character who can canonically phase through things, and it's become a fic meme.) I hope you got a good laugh out of this, at the very least!
> 
> I'm kind of tempted to write more things about the ghost, who is probably technically an incubus, but that would quickly approach Literotica levels of "wtf" given all the kinks I do have. I will say that the pumpkin is probably mysteriously altered, though. It will be interesting to see if anyone carves a jack-o-lantern out of it, or eats it!


End file.
